


No Man Is an Island

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4690241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shutting out Starsky never ends well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Man Is an Island

Written: 2001

First published in "Comfort Zone 1" (2002)

 

  Coming home from a funeral was always difficult. Dave Starsky had seen the toll it had taken from the moment his partner stepped out of the airport gate, the tired droop of his shoulders and the slight hardness to his face. Hutch’s way of trying to still himself against pain. He probably had no idea it never got as far as his eyes. Starsky shook his head. He’d have bet considerable money his partner hadn’t even let himself mourn for his childhood best friend. 

  They didn’t exchange a word, didn’t pretend everything was fine. Starsky merely ruffled the blond hair once in a silent sympathetic greeting, and took Hutch’s one bag. Traveling so light was in itself a sign of his partner’s state of mind; Hutch usually packed more for a trip than most women Starsky knew. Now, he wasn’t even protesting Starsky’s help, another off-note. He followed Starsky out to the Torino without a word.

  And yet, there was a lot to talk about, some of which wouldn’t keep. Starsky waited until they cleared the muddled airport traffic to glance at his passenger. 

  “How’re Jack’s parents doin’?” 

  Hutch didn’t stir, staring out the side window. “Only his mom--his dad died a few years back. I didn’t even know.”

  “He could’ve called you.” It seemed awkward to blame the dead, but then, the dead didn’t suffer pangs of conscience.

  “I could’ve called him,” Hutch answered with a weary shrug. “Doesn’t matter much now, does it?”

  So he’d been right about his partner, but being right gave Starsky no satisfaction. He was as good at brooding and the self-blame game as Hutch, but Starsky had learned a long time ago that pain was easier shared. And he was more inclined to ask for help when it was needed. Call it pride or masochism--or courage--but Hutch had never seemed to learn that lesson.

  And when the pain was mixed with guilt, deserved or not...it was a heavy load for one person to carry alone. Especially when he didn’t have to.

  Starsky let the quiet peace of the moving car settle his partner a little before speaking up again. “How was the funeral?” Starsky gently probed, like a doctor looking for the edges of a wound. 

  “The usual. A lot of people being sorry and looking for words that weren’t there.”

  “Did Mrs. Mitchell know?” Starsky continued patiently.

  That finally earned him a look. “What, about the tumor or the case?”

  The anger in the question wasn’t directed at Starsky and he knew that. “The tumor.” The brain tumor that had slowly been killing Jack Mitchell and that Hutch had known about and failed to share with his partner. Jack had been the primary suspect in the serial murder case the Las Vegas PD had brought them in on precisely because of Hutch and Jack’s history, and the fact that Hutch hadn’t told his partner everything he’d learned still rankled Starsky. But the personal angle disturbed him far more. Hutch hadn’t shared much with him, period, even after the real murderer had killed and exonerated Jack with one stroke. Hutch had just withdrawn. And was still withdrawing, even though the case was over and it was just the two of them now.

  Hutch sighed, rubbing a hand over his drawn face. “No. It doesn’t look like Jack told anybody.” 

  “So you weren’t the only one he didn’t call,” Starsky pointed out delicately.

  Hutch didn’t answer, staring out at the passing streets again.

  But the silence wasn’t an easy one, and Starsky only let it hold a minute before trying again. “How’re your folks?” 

  “Fine. Dad says hi and Mom sends her love,” was the listless reply.

  Starsky smiled despite himself. John Hutchinson had taken some warming to, but he was a good man, and Hutch’s mom had immediately drawn Starsky under her wing simply because Hutch loved him. It would have been nice to see them again, but Hutch had said he didn’t want company and Starsky had thought it best to let his partner go back home alone. Now, he wasn’t sure either of them had been right.

  They were approaching Venice, now only several minutes away from Hutch’s apartment with the light Saturday noon traffic. Hutch would go in alone, and Starsky doubted he’d hear from his friend again before work on Tuesday. He didn’t have much time left to say what he wanted to.

  “Maybe I shoulda gone with you,” he ventured.

  “You wouldn’t have known anybody there.”

  “I know you.” 

  That actually made the blue eyes blink, the lines around them easing a little as Hutch looked at him again, more warmly this time. “I’m okay, Starsk.” 

  “That why you’re not talkin’ to me?”

  He’d pushed too hard; Starsky knew it the moment he said it. Hutch’s expression closed again, pulling back inside like a spooked turtle into its shell. “Not everything’s about you, you know,” he said flatly. 

  Starsky had asked for more than Hutch was able to give yet. That wasn’t his partner’s fault. Hutch came to him first with any practical problem, held nothing back when Starsky needed him, and placed his life in Starsky’s hands every single day. This wasn’t about trust. It was just that there were still a few things that were hard for the blond to give up, and one was a stubborn, self-hurting self-reliance when it came to personal issues. 

  Starsky gentled his voice even as he forged on, going for broke. “No, this is about you. About how you didn’t tell me Jack was dying and haven’t talked about it since and how you went to the funeral alone.” Starsky pulled his eyes away from the street long enough to give his partner a penetrating look. “No man’s an island, Hutch. Everybody needs to open up sometimes, talk to someone, let ‘em help. You do the same for me when something’s eatin’ at me, not leaving me alone until I spill my guts. And I appreciate it, I really do, because I need that even if I don’t always think I do. So do you.” 

  He’d dawdled the last mile or so, but they were already pulling up in front of Venice Place. Hutch reached back for his bag. “Starsky. I’m fine.”  

  Starsky grimaced. Did Hutch even realize how unconvincing he sounded, or was he fooling himself, too? You couldn’t force help on someone who didn’t think they needed it. Even if it was obvious they did. 

  But Starsky was nothing if not determined, especially where his partner was concerned. He dropped the anger and frustration, everything but his concern, trying one last time. 

  “I care about ya, Hutch.”

  It stopped his partner in mid-reach for the door handle, and Hutch gave him a long look before deflating with a long exhalation. “Look.” He tiredly rubbed a hand over his eyes, then fleetingly met Starsky’s gaze. “I appreciate the ride and the offer to help and the concern, really. But I’m okay, so let’s just...drop it, all right? I just need some time off. I’ll see you Tuesday.” And if it was supposed to be a smile on his face, it didn’t come off right. 

  “Sure,” was all Starsky said, suddenly tired himself. That was that. To keep pushing now would have only made Hutch hostile. No, it was up to his partner now to figure out when he was ready to talk, and when and if he was, Starsky would be there. 

  But for now, his eyes stayed on the steering wheel as Hutch climbed out and awkward good-byes were said. And Starsky reluctantly turned toward home.

 

  Hutch plodded up the stairs of Venice Place, relieved to be home. Starsky had meant well in his worry, Hutch knew that, but the misplaced concern just weighed him down even more. He was fine--couldn’t his partner see that? The grief of Jack’s death still pressed heavily on him, but that was normal after a funeral. His former best friend’s funeral. Talking wouldn’t change that. All Hutch wanted to do was take a shower and then a nap, forget things for a while. He hadn’t slept that well in Duluth. 

  Three newspapers were piled up on his doormat and Hutch gave an inward groan as they came into sight. Mrs. Johnson from across the hall was supposed to pick them up for him, but apparently had been called away to her ill brother again as she sometimes was. Great, an invitation to burglars. Wouldn’t that just top the week?

  Hutch crouched down to collect the papers and was levering himself up when he heard the scraping noise from inside his apartment. Automatically, his eyes went to the lock, and it wasn’t hard to make out the scratches right next to the doorjamb. Wonderful. What a time to be right. 

  His gun was inside, of course; airlines didn’t take too well to armed passengers and he had no jurisdiction in Minnesota, anyway. But burglars rarely carried weapons, usually worked alone, and tended to be non-confrontational, breaking into empty houses by choice. Besides, the Colt was right by the door in the table drawer. All he had to do was get the drop on the guy. Hutch stood and turned the key in the lock with soundless care, then eased the door open to peer inside.

  A dark-haired, slight man stood in the kitchen with his back to Hutch, rummaging in the cupboard. Perfect. Hutch opened the door wider, thankful for well-oiled hinges, and slipped inside, peering around as he did. No one else was in sight, but he hadn’t expected anyone to be. Better and better. Hutch carefully removed his revolver from the drawer, hidden in the back under a pile of paperwork, and then straightened, aiming the gun at the burglar.

  “Police. Hands up where I can see them.” 

  The man froze, his hands obligingly inching up.

  Focused on the man, the blur of movement from the bedroom doorway on his right caught Hutch’s attention too late. And suddenly he was wrestling a second man for the gun. Stupid--he’d been stupid, assuming the guy had been alone. His distraction would cost him. Maybe even his life.

  The man was a clumsy fighter but he’d had a moment’s surprise on Hutch. Before the detective could think, the man had the gun turned down and away, accidentally setting it off as they tussled. The next moment, it felt as though he’d kicked Hutch’s leg, hard, and the blond lost his balance, going down heavily. 

  The other man, the partner who wasn’t supposed to be, now held the Colt on Hutch.

  “I thought you said no one was home!” the man with the gun snapped at the darker one.

  “Well, he _came_ home.” The words were racing over his head as Hutch tried to follow them, one eye on the slightly blurry gun. 

  “And you shot him?” Shot who? Hutch shook his head, trying to clear it of the odd fuzziness confusing him so he could come up with some way out of this. He’d get laughed off the force for letting two burglars disarm him.

  “It’s not serious, just his leg.” His leg _did_ hurt where he’d been struck. Numbly, Hutch glanced down at it, surprised to see blood seeping through his slacks. He was bleeding? 

  “We gotta get outta here.”

  “What about him?”

  “Leave him. I didn’t get into this to kill nobody.” 

  “He’s seen us.”

  “So? We’ll be long gone before anyone finds him.”

  “Well, at least...” The voice moved away and he couldn’t seem to keep hold of it. The first man was standing over him with the Colt now, but his face went out of focus even as Hutch tried to fix on it. 

  A flurry of motion announced the return of the second burglar, and Hutch was shoved unceremoniously onto his side, his arms pulled painfully behind him. Then a ripping sound, and something cool and sticky wound around his wrists.

  Tape. They were binding him. 

  His reaction was automatic, more instinct than planning as he flailed away from the man with the tape. The one with his gun quickly moved in and another blow to Hutch’s bad leg sent sharp stabs of pain through him. That _hurt_. His eyes watered and suddenly breathing was challenge enough. Hutch lay half-curled on his side as his hands were secured, then his ankles pulled together for similar treatment, forcing a groan from him at the fresh jolt of pain in his leg. And then he was being manhandled, shoved into something cramped and dark, the door slamming shut on him. _Closet_ , he realized confusedly.

  Outside the door, footfalls retreated, a door closing, and then all was quiet. 

  Except for his own breathing, harsh in his ears. 

  He’d been shot. Not badly or his leg would have been a mess, but bad enough to be a serious problem. Hutch couldn’t see his leg in the darkness of the closet, but that had to be it. Traumatic injuries usually felt like a blow at first, numb for the first half-hour or so until the pain set in. His kind visitors had just sped things up, and now his leg throbbed hotly with every beat of his heart. His pants leg was wet clear down to his sock and already his head was spinning from blood loss. Clearly he couldn’t stay there until someone found him, not until, what, maybe Tuesday, when Starsky would miss him at work? Mrs. Johnson was away and the cafe downstairs was always crowded and noisy on Saturdays, so it was doubtful anyone would have heard the gunshot. And Hutch had all but ensured his partner wouldn’t venture back before then, not without risking his head being bitten off. 

  _No man’s an island._ Hutch couldn’t help but think of his partner’s words. This hadn’t been quite what Starsky had meant, but how different was it? You wanted to be there for your partner whether on the street or off. He could have at least listened to what Starsky had to say, even if he didn’t agree with it...

  But that was a pointless issue now. He couldn’t count on Starsky coming to the rescue anytime soon, and three more days would be too long. Instead, with his back against the closet wall and his legs bent in front of him, Hutch slowly worked on levering himself up so he could twist around and reach the doorknob with his bound hands. 

  Except his injured leg would bear no weight and there wasn’t really enough room to stand. And even that became inconsequential as pain become agony and Hutch collapsed back, trying not to be sick, unable to draw breath for a moment even to cry out.

  Not that anyone was there to hear him. He’d made sure of that. 

  It was hard to believe one little theoretically non-lethal injury could cause such torment. Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his head back against the closet wall, panting as he waited for the pain to ebb so he could try again. He didn’t have much choice. 

 

  Starsky’s mood had dipped further and further south on the way to Westchester, and he’d reached home feeling just short of lousy. It’d made for a long afternoon of puttering around his apartment, restlessly starting one task and leaving it unfinished for another. His heart just wasn’t in it. Dinner was a chore, and he’d finally turned in early, his thoughts keeping him up late. 

  Cops lived by control. They tended to have controlling personalities and needed control on the job just to survive. That was hard to give up. And yet...Starsky had learned that around his partner, he didn’t always need to have it. He could afford to let down his guard without shame or fear, and know that Hutch wouldn’t let him get hurt. As far as Starsky was concerned, that was part of partnership. 

  Just a few months before, it’d been his turn. Poison in his system, Starsky had been close to dying, trying to find both the antidote and his poisoner in time. And when the pain got bad, Hutch had been the one to offer comfort and hold him until Starsky collected himself and was able to go on. It had been an offering of both love and protection, freely tendered and accepted without hesitation. Starsky wouldn’t have made it without that, and Hutch hadn’t thought any less of him for it, he knew. 

  So why was his partner so loath to accept in return? 

  Then again, Hutch was far more reserved than he was. Partly background, partly personality, asking and accepting didn’t come as easily to him as it did to Starsky. Gratefulness often shone in the sky blue eyes even when his responses to Starsky’s concerns were awkward and unpracticed. Maybe the idea of accepting worked out differently in that blond head? It wouldn’t have been the first time they’d gone at something differently, Starsky’s directness blinding him to his partner’s indirect approach. But he could well imagine that Hutch wasn’t used to the idea of being on the receiving end and didn’t know how to handle it. Hutch was terrific at giving, one of the most caring people Starsky had ever met, but it was often people like that who didn’t want to burden others with their troubles.

  Well, it just meant Starsky would have to teach him. Just as Hutch had taught him it was okay to care. 

  With the decision made to return to Hutch’s the next morning and introduce him to some new ways of thinking, Starsky had finally fallen asleep.  

  Which was why he stood now in front of Venice Place, watching the dawning sun color the sky behind the apartment building. It was early still and he would have been there even earlier if not for the multiple car pile-up he’d encountered on the way over. Hutch was the morning person of the two of them, anyway, probably already back from his daily jog. And besides, Starsky hadn’t been able to sleep well at all and wagered his partner had had similar trouble. 

  Taking a deep breath, Starsky opened the building door and went inside. Hutch’s door came into view as he climbed the steps, complete with a pile of newspapers and his bag sitting in front of the door.

  Starsky frowned. Even tired and preoccupied, that was unusually careless of Hutch. Something wasn’t right. Starsky pulled his own set of keys out instead of knocking as he’d intended, his other hand already straying toward his holster.

  The door was already unlocked.

  Foreboding tightened his skin as Starsky silently drew the gun and swung the door inward with one push. 

  The blood on the carpet in front of the bedroom caught his eye only a second before the blond figure, sprawled half-in, half-out of the living room closet. 

  _Oh, God, no._

  “Hutch.” Heart pounding in his throat, Starsky crouched beside Hutch, feeling for a pulse even as he scanned the room for danger. But the apartment felt empty, any attacker long gone, and Starsky finally laid his gun on the floor beside him to concentrate on his hurt partner.

  The pulse was there, faster and weaker than it should have been but showing no signs of stopping. Only partially relieved, Starsky noted the skin was hot under his fingers, and that Hutch was shaking with chill. Fever and shock. Each was dangerous alone, let alone together. 

  Starsky explored on, anxious to find the cause, calming as he went. “Hutch? It’s gonna be okay, buddy. I’m just gonna check you out.” Hutch’s face, mostly hidden in the carpet, was slack and unresponsive, but Starsky had to say _something_. The bound wrists caught his eye immediately, and the angry jarring cleared his head. His suspicions of foul play confirmed, he reached up to give the golden hair a stroke before he started in on the tape. If Hutch was at all aware, Starsky wanted to make sure he knew whose hands he was in.

  The dirty duct tape was torn in two places, as if someone had worked at it, but was too thick to have been cut through. Starsky made quick work of it, peeling it off even as his eyes traced down the motionless body to the legs that disappeared into the shadows of the closet. So what was causing the fever and where had all the blood come from? The not knowing was almost as bad as any injury he could have found.

  Freeing the arms, Starsky moved them into a more comfortable position. “There, isn’t that better? Everything’s gonna be fine,” he said absently. If he just knew what needed fixing...  Starsky felt along each limb as he adjusted them, then down Hutch’s back and neck. So far, so good. Taking a chance that it was okay to move the wounded man, Starsky hooked his hands under Hutch’s arms and carefully pulled him out all the way into the living room. And the darkness of his legs resolved into one stiff, stained pants leg and a crimson-dyed sock. 

  Mouth suddenly dry, Starsky immediately moved around to that side and pulled at the pant leg trying to be careful and not start fresh bleeding. “Oh, Hutch,” he whispered. Even under all the dried blood, it didn’t take long to find the injury. The ugly, deep gash was no longer bleeding, but it leaked a watery fluid around the blood-crusted edges. Infection. That explained the fever and the taut-skinned, swollen leg. One long look and Starsky was scrambling for the telephone only a few feet from the injured man. A few feet too far.

  The answer he got from the dispatcher wasn’t the one he wanted. No help available for at least a half-hour, all local units tied up at the accident he’d seen on the way over. Cursing under his breath, Starsky slammed the phone down and. After a moment’s thought, he snatched it up again and dialed another number, this time an old friend. Doctor Jace Broadhurst promised to be there in ten minutes. It was still too long, but Starsky was grateful for what he could get. 

  And in the meantime, it was up to him to do what he could for his partner.

  “Just hold on, buddy,” he murmured for ears that weren’t hearing him, and dashed into the bedroom to snatch the blanket off the bed. He tucked it around the feverish body, then attacked the tape binding Hutch’s ankles next. Starsky stuck the strip onto the wall next to the first one so that forensics could take a look at it. With the legs separated, Starsky promptly grabbed the wooden chair from beside the door and propped Hutch’s good leg on it. Only partial elevation but it would have to do; he wouldn’t risk starting the injured one bleeding again. 

  “Be right back,” he promised before darting into the bathroom next for a wet washcloth, which he rubbed against the parched, slightly opened lips. “Open up,” he coaxed half to himself, encouraged when Hutch’s mouth opened wider and he could slip the washcloth’s corner inside. Starsky nearly smiled as Hutch first sucked at it, then with a slight face, tried to spit it out. Starsky took it back and wiped the hot face with a fresh corner. “Doesn’t taste so good, huh? Bet that feels better.”

  Life was slowly stealing back into the inanimate frame, the blond eyelashes fluttering, the doubtless parched throat trying to swallow. Starsky rose long enough to re-soak the washcloth to the point of oversaturation, then dropped back to his knees beside his friend to trickle more of the water into the slack mouth. Hutch turned his head slightly toward him this time, searching for the water, and Starsky patted the stubbled jaw. “That’s terrific,” he said softly. 

  But with awareness came the return of feeling, and the pale face was becoming pinched with hurting, respiration growing uneven. 

  “Easy, Hutch, easy,” Starsky soothed, his own distress increasing as his partner grew more upset. Hutch’s breath caught in his throat in a painful gasp, and Starsky couldn’t have ignored that any more than he could have gotten up and walked away, but talking just wasn’t helping. After a moment’s consideration, Starsky leaned forward and pulled at his partner’s body until his shoulders and head rested against Starsky instead of the cold floor. It was the wrong end to elevate and Starsky knew it, but Hutch’s shivering--and increasing agitation--worried him. Careful not to jar the injured leg, he pulled the blanket up around Hutch’s shoulders and then just held him. Warming the victim was a good excuse. Trying to ease his pain and let him know he was safe and no longer alone were reasons Hutch would have been less comfortable with perhaps, but Starsky knew they were closer to the truth and Hutch was in no position to argue with him now. 

  Fever and pain had taken their toll in exhaustion, and the body he held had no strength in it, flopping against Starsky like an abandoned doll. Starsky did all the work, adjusting the drooping head so that it rested in the curve of his elbow, the limp torso propped on its side against Starsky’s legs. Hutch’s hands he took in his own under the blanket. 

  He could feel the blond’s vague awareness surface even though Hutch’s eyes remained too heavy to open, the slight tension in the lean body despite being powerless to act on it. Starsky lowered his head to right by his friend’s ear. 

  “It’s Starsky. You’re with me and you’re gonna be fine. I don’t want you to do anything but relax, got it? Just rest. Let me take care of things.”

  _Just rest_ \--it seemed simple, but wanting Hutch to let him shoulder some of the burden was what had gotten them in that spot in the first place. Hutch didn’t relinquish control all that easily, not even when he was helpless to do something himself. That damnable self-sufficiency again, Starsky shook his head. He admired it even as he cursed it.  

  Starsky didn’t fight his partner’s natural resistance, just held on, ruffling the golden hair with his fingers, tracing the curve of the trembling back with his other hand. Whenever Hutch braced himself against another onslaught of pain, Starsky warmly curled his hand around his partner’s neck and held him closer until it passed. “Shh, take it easy,” he soothed over and over again. “Don’t fight it, just ride it out. Let it go. It’s okay, just me here.” Though he couldn’t help but wonder if that would help, Hutch unwilling to relax his control even with just his partner present.  

  But ever so slowly, the tension began to ease. Hutch’s breathing grew louder, almost sobbing, but his body was loosening in Starsky’s hands, letting his partner take over the fight. Not trying to hide or rein in anything anymore, and Starsky smiled at the blond head. It meant more than he could’ve said that the trust went deeper than a lifetime of instincts. 

  Hutch began to calm. Starsky was absorbing the tremors and his friend’s plain distress now, and Hutch was finally relaxing for real, pain easing, tension mostly gone. Starsky absently massaged his partner’s shoulder. 

  “Attaboy,” he whispered. “That wasn’t so bad, huh? Gotta teach you a thing or two about taking your turn at bein’ on the receiving end.” Like that accepting comfort didn’t equal weakness. It took a strong person to be willing to let someone else get that close and take over for a while. And Hutch was stronger than he in many ways. One look at the blood smeared inside the closet, witness to long hours spent inside and Hutch’s struggles to free himself, and there was no question of that in Starsky’s mind. 

  God, he was so lucky. Starsky rocked his injured partner, feeling shivers subside into occasional tremors, and felt profoundly grateful.

  Someone knocked on the door. Starsky didn’t let himself start and Hutch was too lulled to react to the noise alone. But Starsky still kept his voice pitched low as he called out, “Jace?”

  The door opened to admit a thatch of brown hair and a young face beneath it. “Yeah--Dave?” One look at the scene in the room and he stepped in all the way, old-fashioned black bag gripped in one hand. He shut the door behind him and then was already crouching next to them, unbuckling his bag as he asked, “What happened?”

  Starsky had given that a little thought himself. A glance around the room had revealed some small things amiss or missing and a general disorder that wasn’t like Hutch. “I think he surprised a burglar. Shot Hutch in the leg, tied him up, and stuffed him in the closet.” It sounded almost laughable in its simplicity, but none of them were smiling. 

  Jace looked shocked, in fact, as he glanced up at Starsky. “A burglar? You’re kidding.”

  Starsky shrugged. “We can ask him later, but looks like he was shot with his own gun.” Hutch’s Colt didn’t leave a small wound--thank God it had only been a graze instead of straight through the leg. Hutch might never have walked again.  

  Broadhurst had already pulled the blanket back and was peering through the torn jeans. “This looks like it happened a while ago.”

  “I dropped him off here yesterday around noon. His bag’s still outside the door.” Which meant a lot more hours of lying there alone, suffering, than Starsky cared to think about. 

  “Noon,” Jace echoed darkly. Starsky could only half-catch what the doctor was doing, but he could see Broadhurst unpacking gauze and several small vials from his bag. “It’s a good thing you came by this morning, Dave.” 

  That was another direction Starsky didn’t want to go. Sometimes miracles seemed to balance on the slightest of choices. 

  Jace was working on the leg now and Hutch twisted slightly in Starsky’s grasp, making an inarticulate sound of pain. Starsky’s fingers were already meshed in the blond hair, urging his partner to relax again, and he glanced up at Broadhurst. “Can ya give him something so it doesn’t hurt?”

  But Jace was grimly shaking his head. “We’re going to need to take him to the hospital and I don’t want to give him something that might interfere with their treatment. I’m covering the wound and I’m gonna start him on antibiotics and something to fight the fever, but that’s about all I feel comfortable doing.”

  “How long?” 

  “Just a minute more. Try to keep him still for me, okay?”

  There was heavy sympathy in his voice, but he still needed to do what he was doing. Keeping Hutch still wasn’t the problem--he didn’t have the strength left to struggle. But his harsh gasps were hot on Starsky’s skin, water pooling from under his squeezed-shut eyes, and seeing his partner hurting like that was almost physically painful.  

  “Easy, easy, Hutch,” Starsky whispered, deliberately calm. “Ride it out, like before. It’s gonna be over in a minute. Focus on me. I gotcha.” Not that Hutch had much choice. But maybe, just maybe, it helped.

  So much later, Jace finally finished. Hutch rested heavily against Starsky, breath ragged and face pressed against his partner. Starsky stroked the damp blond hair as he looked up at Jace wearily. “Finished?”

  A nod. The young doctor looked aged, too, but he gave Starsky a wan smile. “Can’t you two do anything without getting into trouble?” 

  “Doesn’t seem like it, does it?” Starsky agreed with a partial smile of his own. “Can we take him in now?”

  Jace Broadhurst put the last of his supplies away and climbed to his feet. “I’m parked right downstairs. Let me get the doors and then I’ll help you take him down.” And he was already gone. 

  A minute later he was back. Starsky already had Hutch sitting up against him. A minute more and they had him lifted in a two-manned carry, heading down the stairs. Hutch shuddered once as he left the floor but didn’t make a sound, and Starsky wondered once more how lucid his partner really was. Well, it wouldn’t matter soon; they were finally getting him some help. And Hutch knew Starsky was with him in the meantime.

  One slow step after another, they made it down to the waiting car and then he curled around his partner in the back seat for the trip in. Hutch had finally lapsed into unconsciousness, unresponsive no matter how the car jostled. 

  It didn’t stop Starsky from rubbing his back and talking to him all the way in. 

 

  It was the nicest African Violet potted plant Hutch had ever seen. Unlike the deep purple plants he usually saw at the nursery, the one that sat on his bedside tray had pale lavender blossoms, the buds an almost pastel hue. Admiringly, he reached over to touch the soft petals and then, beneath them, gently stroked a fuzzy leaf. 

  The room was empty, Hutch’s roommate discharged that morning shortly before Starsky had left. As Hutch improved, his partner had backed off to give him some space, stopping in now to sit with him twice a day. He appreciated his partner’s perspicacity; Hutch still had a lot to think about and the quiet helped. Starsky’s presence cheered him, drew him out of himself, and made the several-day hospital stay bearable, but it also threatened the fragile self-control he’d found. His partner had a way of bringing things out of him that Hutch wasn’t ready to share. 

  Not that he was ashamed of Starsky knowing them...well, not really. Starsky had not only seen him at the lowest point in his life, the utter debasement of drug withdrawal, but had held him and cared for him through it. There wasn’t much worth hiding from someone who’d gone through something like that with you. 

  But why should he share his loss? Hutch wouldn’t fall apart alone. And Jack’s death wasn’t Starsky’s problem--his partner hadn’t even much seemed to like Hutch’s childhood friend. He’d continued to consider Jack their main suspect long after Hutch was sure he wasn’t...though, whose fault was that? Hutch hadn’t told him about the doctor’s revelation about the tumor, and that at least Hutch should have shared, he knew. Starsky had a right to know about anything that affected their case. 

  It just...wasn’t that simple. 

  Starsky changed all the rules Hutch had grown up with. Don’t cry, don’t share your secrets, don’t show weakness in front of others. Didn’t every boy grow up that way? Not Starsky, it seemed. 

  Oh, his partner was no wimp. He had one of the toughest reputations in the precinct, and there was a hardness to him that was foreign to Hutch. But with his friends, with those he cared about, Starsky kept little hidden. It seemed natural to him. And Hutch was fine with that--it had made them as close as they were and had let him support this partner in ways he’d never been able to with previous ones. There was something that felt amazingly good in that, but...reciprocate? Couldn’t it be enough that he trusted Starsky more than any other person outside his family? 

  A jaunty knock sounded at the door, drawing Hutch’s eyes from the plant with a start, then a dark-curled head appeared.

  “ _Good_ morning, Officer. And how are you this fine morning?”

  Hutch smiled at his partner’s appearance. “Great. They said you can spring me tomorrow.” 

  Starsky came in all the way, hitching himself onto the edge of the wide hospital bed, eye-level with his partner. The blue eyes sobered as they studied him. “That why you’re so happy?” Starsky asked with gentle sarcasm. Invitingly. 

  Hutch’s smile faltered. How did Starsky do that? He followed his partner’s gaze to the little potted plant and realized he was still absently caressing the leaf. But he didn’t stop.

  Starsky nodded at the flower. “Who sent those? Musta been someone who knows about your green thumb.” 

  “Mrs. Mitchell,” Hutch answered quietly, eyes on the blossoms. “She heard about what happened from Mom.” 

  Starsky’s cheer re-formed itself into sincere solicitude. “That was nice of her.” 

  “As if she didn’t have enough to worry about...” Hutch shook his head a little. “I wish I’d thought of sending her something.”

  Starsky scuffed one shoe on the floor, his attention suddenly elsewhere. “Uh, you did.” 

  “I did?” Hutch turned to him in surprise. 

  “I wanted to do something but figured it would be kinda funny coming from me, so I sent her some flowers while you were gone and signed it from both of us.” He shrugged. “Figured you wouldn’t mind.”

  Hutch stared at him a moment longer and then broke into a genuine smile. “No, I’m glad. Thanks.” 

  “You’re welcome.” 

  Hutch’s eyes returned to the plant, his thumb and forefinger rubbing the leaf between them, a memory taking him back fifteen years and halfway across the country. “She always loved flowers. Jack’s house was like a nursery, plants in every corner. He used to complain about it a lot, but it didn’t really bother him. He knew it made her happy...” He trailed off, a lump abruptly in his throat, but the words kept coming for some reason. “He wasn’t just my best friend, Starsky--he was one of my few real friends. We did everything together.” He was looking at his partner now, his vision starting to blur. The leaf crushed between his fingers and Hutch cursed himself; it was too soon. He wasn’t ready to talk about this without making a fool of himself. It just wasn’t--

  “I know,” Starsky said softly. “He seemed like a good guy.” And Hutch could read his expression as easily as if Starsky had written it down for him. _Let it out. Lean on me this time._ As if Hutch never had. As if it were that easy. It had been different when Starsky had found him--then Hutch had needed him. But to give in just because he felt like it, because he was illogically mourning a friend he hadn’t even seen in years...

  A tear rebelliously broke away to roll down his face and Hutch flushed, hastily lifting his hand to rub the wetness out of his eyes. 

  Starsky reached out just as determinedly to check the motion. At Hutch’s startled glance, he calmly reached over and picked up the box of tissues on the bedside table, nudging them into his partner’s hand instead. “You were sayin’?” And he shifted his position on the edge of the bed, making it clear that he was settling in to stay a while. 

  He wasn’t being given a choice, Hutch realized. And was blindsided by relief. Was it really that easy? 

  Had Starsky ever given him reason to think it wasn’t?

  Several more tears splashed over all at once and Hutch let them, tentatively dropping his hand onto the covers, palm up, silently asking just as a hurting Starsky, fighting the poison in his body, had a few months earlier. 

  Starsky smiled slightly, no disgust or even pity in his eyes. He dropped his hand into Hutch’s, acting as unaware of the request as Hutch was, but he gave his partner’s fingers an encouraging squeeze. _Go on,_ he nodded. 

  Hutch swallowed, eyes overflowing unabashedly now. “Jack always wanted to be a doctor ‘cause he wanted to do some good in the world,” he finally managed. “I got the bug from him--never thought it’d lead to the Academy. But he was happy for me...”

  And Starsky sat and listened.


End file.
